


Trickster

by EmmG



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dark Solas, F/M, I'm already judging myself, Inquisition Timeline, Mildly Dubious Consent, Slow-ish burn, Solas goes kind of crazy tbh, slight AU, unhinged
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmG/pseuds/EmmG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd slaughtered his way to victory once and would do it again. He would pick up the mask of Fen'Harel and hope his resolve wouldn't falter when came the time to relinquish it, for his sake and hers. But for now, if felt good to be whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. More Than Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> AKA Solas switches to the dark version of himself because he's tired of being weak and things go very wrong for everyone involved. I'm already judging myself for what's to come...lol. I'm probably going to add more tags as this goes on.
> 
> I already hate myself.

He'd never felt so pathetic.

His barrier had come up in time to shield Lavellan and a huffing Blackwall, but had cost him his footing.

Out of all the ways to get injured, it had to be by tumbling down a hill. At the other end of the field, Dorian cast a fire glyph around a cluster of Venatori and failed to see him go down. A small mercy.

He heard the cries of battle ---a mere skirmish, really--- and somehow maintained the spell even as his limbs bent at a most unnatural angle and his skull connected with a glorious _crack_ against a rock. Something about damned Vints, a curse or two about gore and guts being stuck to a blade, a boisterous cackle followed by a breathless, soft chuckle. Solas made out sounds more than he made out colors --- which was something else, since he failed to see past his outstretched arm. Agony throbbed behind his eyes and something warm trickled down his neck.

"My good man, you should have called."

Dorian slipped his arms beneath his own and hauled him to his feet. Solas could _feel_ his concerned grimace as he dragged him back to the decimated Venatori encampment. The cultists bled in the grass; dead men required no fire or tents, and so they would make themselves comfortable.

"Maker's balls," Blackwall's grumble of a voice exclaimed, and then a second pair of arms aided in keeping him upright.

Dorian welcomed the help with a huff.

"It is fine." He didn't know how he managed it, but he did, and the response it earned him was a derisive laugh coming from all directions at once.

"As luck would have it, you're the healer," Dorian muttered, easing him onto a cot as Blackwall cradled his bleeding head. "Fucked up luck," he added.

"Don't need to be a healer to tie a bandage," Blackwall said. His gauntlet had been soaked before touching him, and Solas felt sick to the stomach as he pulled away, fresh blood mixing with fresher blood still.

His eyes fluttered shut and he frowned, bidding coherent thought to return for but a moment. "I---ah--get a rag---clean it."

"No shit."

Solas ignored Dorian. "Get some ice."

This time Dorian nodded, perhaps too eagerly. "That I can do."

Immediately, a slab of ice formed beneath him, a cushion of frost. Solas sighed, reclining against it and trying desperately to ignore the crimson slowly spreading through the clear, cool surface.

Then another hand touched his face, and this one was much softer, gentler. Ellana knelt beside him, her hair a wild tangle and face smeared with dirt after an awkward fall. She traced his cheekbones and jaw line, cooing words of comfort as he stared up at her, dazed.

Her lips were moving and it took him too long to make sense of her words.

"Will elfroot help?" she was asking, repeating his name in between every inquiry in an attempt to, no doubt, anchor him to consciousness. "Will it help, Solas?"

He blinked a few times, catching her wrist. His fingers contracted around it. He hissed. "For the pain---yes---don't let me---"

Ellana nodded furiously. "Sleep. Yes, I know. I won't let you sleep."

She sent a fidgety Dorian into the forest to gather herbs, and when he came back, usually pristine skin of his hands prickled and bleeding, she ground it all into a thick paste and mixed it with water. It was a crude and primitive alternative to a healing potion, but some of the agony numbed.

Come morning, Ellana looked as horrible as he felt, dark circles hanging under her eyes and hands shaking from exhaustion. She had caked blood lodged beneath her fingernails and the smell of iron brought on dry heaves whenever she leaned in too close to him or scratched her face.

"Come," said Dorian, pulling her upright and assisting her onto his courser. The horse whinnied, but accepted their combined weights and Ellana reclined against her friend, head rolling onto his shoulder as his arms encircled her to claim the reins.

She'd kept vigil most of the night, and now was her turn to rest.

"Up," growled Blackwall.

The man couldn't be gentle if he tried, but try he did, and it's somewhat clumsily that he managed to get Solas into the saddle of his absolutely massive Ferelden Folder.

He was little better than an invalid at this point, but Solas still retained every ounce of his pride. He couldn't help but protest, albeit feebly, when he felt the Warden pull himself up behind him.

"Tie me to the saddle if you must, but for the sake of our dignities do not make us share a horse." His speech was slurred and his throat parched. Nothing about this was dignified.

Blackwall made a sound deep in his throat as he shifted as far away from Solas as he could. Still, his armor was thick and they ended up pressed against each other, with Blackwall's beard every so often getting in the way. "No one asked you," he said. "I'm not thrilled either. I'd rather be squeezing a tavern wench's backside instead of yours---if that's any comfort to you."

It wasn't.

But Solas had no strength left to protest their arrangement. Mercifully, he spent the rest of the trip in a state of half-confusion, responding to alarmed voices only when the volume became unbearable.

And then he all but slid off the Folder as Blackwall paused to crack his knuckles and stretch his tired arms. Apparently, his hold had been all that kept him in place. Most gracelessly, Solas proceeded to vomit into the grass as a chorus of curses erupted somewhere above him and a concerned hand rubbed a soothing pattern between his shoulder blades.

"Just a little longer, hahren," Ellana entreated, and her face was a welcome sight as she draped his arm around her own frail shoulders to help him stand. "Would you rather ride with me?"

He nodded.

"Blackwall, help me get him up," she called.

And with those words, he was back on the horse. Ellana's mount was smaller, leaner, and his legs did not whine from straddling it. Being taller than her, he'd involuntarily forced her into a uncomfortable position where she had to crane her neck to the side to see the road or prop her chin on his shoulder. But not once did she complain and, if Solas was being honest with himself, her warm breath crashing against his ear was the most pleasant sensation he'd felt in years.

They were mere hours from Skyhold, but Ellana insisted on stopping by a village known as a popular trading spot. Something was mentioned about a healer and a favor for the Inquisition, and of course his own name, spoken more times than he could count. Solas saw a pair of bright green eyes and a concerned frown of an older man.

Bits and pieces.

Flashes of color and abrupt sounds.

"And you couldn't do anything for him?" the man asked, mockery tinting his tone. "Aren't you mages talented in all matters?"

Of course. No one ever jumped on the opportunity to help an apostate. Not in these times.

"No. Just as you healers apparently lack common fashion sense and choose to resemble either lumberjacks or hobos," Dorian retaliated.

It was odd to have the Tevinter on his side. Odd, but not unpleasant.

"...for the Inquisition."

Ellana's voice. Gentle. Not commanding. She demanded nothing, never did, but would receive everything.

For the first time in two days, Solas slept.

*

He was as much a creature of the Fade as it was his to command. Here resided secrets he would never share and aimed to forget, truths so horrible that at times the Dalish depiction of him nearly came close to reality. But here he was also free.

He did not seek comfort, didn't walk the expanse of history. Rather, Solas waited. The scenery changed around him like rippling water, reflecting what he felt---or rather didn't feel. He was like a light in darkness, and spirits fled to his side. Wisdom and Curiosity and Puzzlement. Formless wisps of bright color which curled around his body and whispered sweet nothings into his ear.

He wanted to wake, but now was not the time. He was still broken.

"And yet you could not be."

It was a voice Solas had ignored time and again. With years, he'd managed to push it to the very back of his mind until it was nothing but an irritant. But now it rang loud and clear, demanding attention, refusing to be denied.

And so Solas turned around.

He faced himself. Himself as he had been at the height of his power, proud and arrogant and _immovable_. A force to be reckoned with, if nothing else, however cliché the sentiment. His copy flashed a grin, teeth sharp and eyes momentarily blazing red. A cloak of midnight and robes embroidered with golden thread, a sight from another age and a mirror image ---yet not--- to the weathered man he'd become.

_Fen'Harel with his six eyes of rubies, the shade of blood._

A wolf, but not a wolf. Only in name, only in actions.

"Leave," Solas ordered.

Fen'Harel did not mock. Nor did he sneer. He merely lowered himself at his side and together they sat in silence, two sides of the same coin. "You can't argue with yourself, old man," his own voice reminded him.

"I have for years." And won.

"There is no shame in accepting help when it is offered."

"I need no help."

"You are not whole," Fen'Harel said. "Without your Orb, you are nothing. You are shemlen. An echo. A fragment."

"I will have it soon."

Fen'Harel hummed and he felt the sound rumble in his own chest. "How soon, I wonder? Ask yourself---will it be soon enough?"

Solas turned to look at himself, really look. It was not like staring into a mirror. He was no more the man who sat beside him than he was an apostate. The identity he'd picked up to fight fire with fire was a private shame buried until now deep in his memories. He did not want to remember what he'd been---what he'd become to protect the only one who mattered and failed miserably.

And yet.

And yet this was the power that eventually saw him on top. He'd slaughtered his way to his meager, tasteless victory, but it had been a victory nonetheless.

Solas took Fen'Harel's hand.

"You would be yourself," Fen'Harel said.

"I became a beast to hunt beasts," Solas replied, still hesitant, but feeling that thread grow thinner every second. Soon, his wavering resolve would snap. "A monster."

And locking away that part of his power had forced him into Uthenera.

He was not whole without his Orb.

"Not a monster," Fen'Harel said, shaking his head. "Just a desperate man."

"A monster," Solas insisted, grim.

"Get rid of it once you've reclaimed your foci, but until then don't be _nothing_."

He didn't want to be a fragile piece in this undeserving world. If he were to set it right, he could not rely on chance. He could not twist and embellish his words forever, hoping the Inquisition would relinquish the ancient artifact, as they knew it, to him as promised. Ellana was sincere in most matters, but if pressured she would crumble under the weight.

How weak he now was.

How he despised it.

Solas inclined his head and tightened his grip on Fen'Harel's hand.

Fen'Harel sighed and then they were no longer two reflections separated by a mirror of restraint.

*

The debriefing and its aftermath went on for days. Her handwriting had become a messy scribbling of incoherent sentences and jumbled words. Ellana didn't understand half of what she penned, but hoped it would be enough for Leliana --- perhaps Josephine would make sense of it all. The Ambassador had a talent for making out Sera's chicken scratch so surely this would be no hardship.

But still, this was a welcome respite. She needed a break from doing this and that. Who would have guessed that being Inquisitor involved hunting for dawn lotus and silverite --- oh and let her not forget crawling into tight holes and rummaging through debris to find rings for old widows.

She didn't mind. Did not hate it. It was just tiring.

Skyhold was quiet in the evening as most members flocked to the Herald's Rest for disgusting Ferelden ale, as Dorian called it. If not for the stack of documents holding her hostage, Ellana would have already been halfway to there.

But these needed to be delivered first.

Some of her thoughts fled as she saw the door to the rotunda wide open. Solas was the private sort and kept to himself whenever possible.

She hadn't had the chance to speak to him since they returned from Dorian's hunt for Venatoris. An expedition that had ended rather unfortunately for him. She suspected his pride was still hurting.

And he was also avoiding her ever since the Haven Fade Incident, as Ellana had dubbed it in her mind. Because Fade Tongue made him scowl and put an impromptu end to their conversations whenever she brought it up. Apparently, teasing only went one way with him.

"Solas?" Ellana called, softly, hovering near the doorway.

He sprang into view, for lack of a better word. She watched him descend from the ladder with the energy befitting a much younger man.

"Lethallan," he greeted. Then, warmly, as he took a few steps toward her, "Ellana."

"How is your head?" she asked.

No response.

He looked good, too good. The healer had warned them he would be dizzy for days and even after another mage tended to him, he was ordered to rest. But rest he did not. He had paint up to his elbows and seemed to remember it only after he'd tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Ellana frowned. Then blushed.

"Forgive me," he said, drawing away as he always did.

She caught him by the elbow. "It's all right."

"All right," Solas repeated. "You are too kind."

Ellana nodded, wordless. He wiped his hands and just stood there, staring at her until she lowered her eyes once more. There was an odd feeling in her chest.

"I should go," she said, or was it whispered? "I have to deliver these reports."

"You should," he agreed, nodding once.

He stalked her retreat with his eyes, and she'd never known him to be so intense in anything.

At least he was well. They all were. That's all she could hope for.


	2. No Gods in the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan recruits an Avvar into the service of the Inquisition and Iron Bull comments upon Solas' accent.

“We can always make camp here,” Lavellan said, warily eyeing the horizon.

The Fallow Mire was all things unpleasant and unease slowly settled over her like a shadow; fear but not quite, dreadful apprehension but more than that. She couldn’t well see past her outstretched arm. Solas was a true beacon as he trudged forth, legs dragging through knee-deep water, as he held a torch of veilfire above his head.

She was thankful they hadn’t taken their mounts. They were very much animals themselves at this point, exhausted, cold, not a dry spot on their clothing.

“Such shite,” Sera grumbled, and Ellana was keen on agreeing.

“Not much longer now,” Solas’ voice announced, a mere echo as the wind carried it back to them.

“Not much longer till what?” Sera whined. She had her bow swung over one shoulder, the string digging into the valley between her breasts. She wasn’t even looking ahead, preoccupied with huffing and puffing and complaining at regular intervals, which caused Ellana’s jaw to clench tight.

Irritation ---at their surroundings, at the pouring rain, at the corpses pouncing at them at every turn--- had reached its peak and she was near snapping. So very close to the edge, and it seemed that Sera was fated to be the one to push her over it.

“At least your ass looks nice,” Iron Bull commented.

“Hmph,” said Sera and went quiet.

Ellana exhaled.

Bull gave her shoulder a light pat as he strode past her. She mouthed her thanks and he acknowledged her with a single nod.

“There,” Solas called, stopping.

“Fuck no,” Sera declared, furiously shaking her head.

“Seriously?” said Bull, arms crossed but not complaining.

“I have no intention of sleeping in the rain,” Solas cut both of them off, stiff shoulders rolling as he pushed the rotten door to an equally rotten hut ---abandoned, cursed, haunted--- open with a swift kick. “You can either follow the Inquisitor and myself or freeze.”

Ellana was already inside by the time the curt words had left his mouth. Solas was at her heels, an air of smug satisfaction about him.

“Please don’t think me stupid,” she whispered while Sera shrugged off her outer layers and Bull freed their bedrolls, “but is there any chance at all this place is…”

“Haunted?” Solas supplied, one eyebrow quirked.

Now she actually did feel daft and very much the child. “Yes.”

“Not at all, lethallan,” he replied, and his tone exhumed exasperation. “The concept itself is ridiculous. You should know better.”

Immediately chastised for something she didn’t know to be a fault, Ellana retreated to Sera’s side. Bull snickered, making a little display of watching her shrug off her water-heavy coat while whistling.

“If you want to fuck, go find a closet or something,” Sera said, throwing both of them a heated glare. “I can’t feel my eyes---my freaking eyes. I’m sleeping right now and if someone of wakes me up, I’ll shove an arrow up---“

“That’s quite enough, Sera,” Solas said, interrupting her impassioned tirade with a pointed look and cold tone.

Ellan rubbed her own eyes. “Can we start a fire, Solas?”

“It would be unwise,” he replied, not looking at her, hands clasped at his back. “We can’t risk attracting attention.”

“Oh well.” She sighed and knelt to rummage through their bags. Solas always wore sweaters; she was nothing if not desperate and would steal one for warmth, or perhaps one of Sera’s overcoats. Bull was a walking furnace, but she wouldn’t snuggle with him for the life of her. There was a very serious chance of him smothering her in sleep. Something. Anything would do. “I’m cold,” she explained after catching Solas staring.

“Come here,” he said, beckoning her with one long finger.

She rose hesitantly and his hand went to her lower back, rubbing small circles. He hadn’t touched her since the Fade Kiss, and even then he hadn’t _actually_ touched her. Ellana felt her lips twitch, a small smile beginning to form, but Solas withdrew just as quickly.

A pleasant warmth spread through her bones, causing her to sigh, content for the first time in hours.

“For obvious reasons I won’t be able to sustain the spell throughout the night, but it should keep shivering at bay until you’re asleep,” Solas said. His back was to her once more as he unwrapped the bindings shielding his palms from the rough wood of his staff.

Sera snorted when Ellana slid in beside her, but quickly wrapped her arms around her middle and huddled close to her. All previous irritation fled as they cuddled.

Ellana watched as Solas slid down the wall, staff propped against his shoulder and chin. He was very quiet.

“I’ll take the first watch, Solas,” Bull said, giving the mage a half-smile. “You did enough today.”

“That is quite all right.”

Bull smiled wider and something about it seemed overly enthusiastic. “I insist.”

“As do I,” Solas replied, mild and ever the diplomat. “You need sleep more than I do. I am always on the sidelines, but your strength will be required to rip through the hordes of undead. There will be many between us and Hargrave Keep."

Bull did not seem convinced, but he conceded with a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

“I shall.”

“Weirdo,” Sera mumbled into Lavellan’s neck.

“Hush,” Ellana mumbled back. Sera’s hand felt nice on her stomach, her calloused palm surprisingly hot, and she hummed despite herself, nuzzling the bedroll.

Morning came with Solas examining her marked hand. Sera had gone, but she could hear her and Bull’s playful banter. Ellana blinked a few times---surely he knew she was awake by now, his face wasn’t that far away from hers, and yet Solas said nothing. She felt his thumb as it pressed into the middle of her palm, not quite a massage and certainly no caress, and the thrum of his magic as he used it to prod at the Anchor.

The phrase poking the bear came to mind, but somehow Ellana doubted he’d find amusement in it.

“It’s not bothering me,” she said, groggy from sleep. She tore her hand away and stretched, arms coming up over her head. The stereotypical cat by the stove.

“I am glad for it,” Solas said. And then he was up, pacing away, prying the door of their disgusting hut open to peer outside. “It rains still,” he announced.

She desperately wanted to ask him then what she had done to earn his dispassionate detachment. Solas had been a lifeline, a familiar face who adamantly rejected such a role in her life, when the world came crushing down and she’d been elevated to a position of not only power but actual religious worship. Her people weren’t his ---and yet he was, he would be in her mind, whether he liked it or not and she would find comfort in the kinship he wouldn’t acknowledge in either refusal or acceptance.

Sera was Andrastian. Lavellan was Dalish. Solas was nothing, but his knowledge made him a kindred spirit to her---and that was a bond she desperately yearned to experience anew. After all, she was no fool; there was no going back to her Clan. Not truly. Not after the Conclave. Not after the Mark. Not after willingly marching under a shemlen banner.

It was bigger than his denial of their brief affections---she missed her solemn hahren who had turned to embrace silence as though a lover as of late. But because he still presented an imposing and, oddly enough, intimidating figure in his emotional exile, Ellana only amassed enough bravado to prop herself on her elbows and watch his back.

“Want to bet it will stop the instant we go back?”

“I am not a betting man,” he said, but his voice was soft, not chiding.

Ellana gulped. She’d started fidgeting, and that was never a good sign. Usually spluttered nonsense followed. “Solas, what have I done to offend?”

And then he did react. Beautifully. Turning around and giving her a tender, if not demure, smile. She wouldn’t have noticed the gentle expression at all, had his voice not changed registers.

Solas’ voice was a natural tenor, light, airy at times, but always mesmerizing. The hoarseness that had crept into it over the last few weeks was an odd, unpleasant addition.

“You have not, Inquisitor,” he said. “Why ever would you think that?”

She shook her head and reached for Sera’s discarded coat. It smelled strongly of sweat, but Ellana couldn’t bring herself to care as she wrapped it around herself. “If you say so. Where are the others?”

“Clearing a path.”

“Clearing a path?” she repeated in disbelief. “Are they crazy---“

“---for trouble,” Solas clarified.

All protests withered on her lips when she heard Sera’s snort-laugh and Bull’s enthusiastic roar. Pushing herself to her feet, Ellana made her way outside to catch glimpse of the two playing around in the water.

“Inky!” Sera squealed just as Bull hurled a lighter log at her which she skillfully dodged with a sidestep. Two middle fingers went up, followed by a pink tongue, before a string of promises about ripping this or that off escaped her.

Ellana pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” And with that a strong hand landed between her shoulders and sent her tumbling into the water.

Mud lodged beneath her fingernails and dirty water sloshed in her mouth, but Ellana was laughing, on hands and knees, shaking like a wet dog---but from mirth, not cold. Bull pulled her against his chest and she pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

“Nice distraction, Boss?” he asked, brushing limp strands of hair away from her face.

“More than nice,” she breathed, and proceeded to stuff a chunk of dripping sweet grass into his mouth.

In the distance, Solas’ sigh was loud enough to move mountains. “Children,” he muttered.

*

Their glee was short-lived. A momentary and lovely distraction. The path to Hargrave Keep was, indeed, riddled with undead. She wasn’t certain what proved more disconcerting: soaked, soft flesh slithering off rotting limbs or the smell of decay. Both, Ellana grimly decided, both were equally unnerving.

Bull had made it his mission to keep her morale up---until now.

He fell into step with Solas who, admittedly, had outran them all. The Fallow Mire must have really been getting to him if he was so eager to complete their mission and, in Sera’s eloquent words, _get the fuck out_. Not that she didn’t share the sentiment.

“A man in the last village,” Solas said. “Something in his manner troubles me.”

Bull grunted, giving the mage an appraising look. “The baker with the squint and the red nose? Yeah, spy.” Then, as if this was but a walk in the park and they were discussing what flowers to add to Skyhold’s herb garden, added, “Probably Venatori.”

Solas kept his gaze straight ahead, but from where Ellana stood she saw the tension in his neck. “Why do you say that?”

“He watched all of us. A normal guy would focus on you because---staff,” a gesture to Solas’ weapon of choice, dark wood with an animal skull atop, “or me because---horns,” and there he gave his own head a solid smack. “He had a dagger up his sleeve, which no baker needs, and the knot on his apron was tied Tevinter style.” He grinned, looking very pleased with himself. “I sent a message to Red. She’ll investigate.”

Solas made a noncommittal sound in his throat. He slouched, his usually rigid posture losing some of its countenance as his foot got caught in a bed of mud. “You are more observant than you appear.”

“The good spies usually are.”

“Indeed.”

“Tell me, Solas,” Bull continued, lending the man some of his brute force to liberate him from the sucking mud that had captured the sole of his boot. Even Solas couldn’t argue the necessity of footwear in such an environment, and it was interesting to watch him maneuver about. “Where is that accent of yours from?”

“A small village to the North.”

“Do the folks there trade with Tevinter?” Bull pressed. “Dialects are easily influenced.”

“Only when necessary.” Solas tilted his head and for a while he did nothing but hold the spy’s gaze before both surrendered. “Are you trying to unravel me, Hissrad? That is your title, yes?”

Bull agreed chirpily, “Sure is and sure am. You’re the only one who’s yet to spill his guts over a pint or two of ale.”

“Ah, well, perhaps you ought to pay Sister Nightingale a visit. She has quite the dossier on me, however insubstantial it is.”

“Will do.”

After that, the two drifted away from each other. Sera set off on a quest to poke Solas in the ribs with a twig until he set it on fire without as much as a word and she fell back, pronouncing him an “arsehole.” There would be a reckoning, judging by her stare.

“I never noticed he had an accent,” Ellana murmured. Her joints hurt from the humidity, an affliction she hadn’t expected to be stricken with until old age. Talking kept her mind off it, and Bull was always happy to oblige.

Bull put his large hands on her waist and lifted her over a fallen tree; it made her giggle when he purposefully ---but also accidentally, if his lying words and the not so lying glint in his eyes were to be believed--- gave her backside a light squeeze.

“He does,” he said simply. “You didn’t pick up on it because you have one of your own---everyone sounds different to you. Living in the woods would have that effect on one, I suppose.”

“Solas sounds nothing like Dorian.”

“He doesn’t.” Same kind of answer as before, clipped and short.

Bull shrugged and did not elaborate upon the matter.

*

"Sera and I will pick the ramparts clean. Bull---don't charge in unless everything goes wonderfully wrong and it's a bloodbath. Solas---I don't have to tell you what to do, just make sure we don't get decapitated, stay back," Ellana said as she readjusted the harness holding her bow. "I want to do this quietly, if we can."

"And no funny business!" Sera hissed. "I don't want no stupid corpse to rise again as a spirit, or whatever shite you do, and bite me in the arse."

"That would be Master Pavus' specialty," Solas remarked, unimpressed. "I am no Necromancer."

"Whatever."

Bull weaved his fingers together to make a step and sent first Sera and then Lavellan scurrying up the wall.

No use going in with blazing fury. They were four and the Avvars---well, the Avvars were many. Sera went right and Ellana left. She etched an arrow, steps light enough to go undetected on crisp snow, as she crept along the ramparts.

 _Hmph_ \---in her peripheral, Sera slipped one of her hidden blades between the ribs of one of the men. His patrol buddy went down gurgling and gasping as Ellana sent an arrow to tear through his throat. She knelt, swiftly wrenching it out with a wet sound.

And so they made their way opposite of each other, taking out the other archers. With the cover of night, it proved no hardship until Sera yelped and one of the Avvars happened to look up.

Then someone was blowing the horn.

“Shite, shite, shite,” Ellana heard Sera exclaim as both flattened on the ground, hands cradling the back of their heads in protection, their bows naught but useless and pretty toys.

A swarm of arrows rose like a dark cloud, nearly obstructing the moon, and then Ellana was infinitely glad for allying with the rebel mages, for thinking magic a useful tool worthy of respect rather than scorn, for retaining Solas’ good graces. His barrier manifested as a tingling feeling over her skin. It was all the encouragement she required to leap over the rampart and into the courtyard.

Bull tore through the first line of defense with terrifying ease, and an equally terrifying roar. His broad axe swung circles around him, taking off heads and chopping off limbs. A flurry of gore.

Being Inquisitor was morbid business.

She spun, feeling momentarily reckless, enveloped by Solas’ barrier as she was. Ellana etched yet another arrow and it whistled past a man’s cheek. He didn’t even flinch, but his taunting laugh at her ---purposeful--- clumsiness gained her time enough to unsheathe a dagger. Using a crate for memento, she crashed into him, knee slamming between the shoulder blades and blade hacking at the concealed skin of his throat. She twisted, panted, they rolled. She found the literal chink in the armor and hot blood gushed, painting her chin red.

Ellana pushed the gasping man off her, wheezing. Time would finish the job for her; she couldn't look at his face and deliver the final blow. Thankfully, her bow had survived the skirmish and her quiver was half-full.

“Bloody wildcat,” Solas’ voice sounded somewhere above her ear, and when she twirled to look at him, he grasped her by the shoulder and shoved her behind his taller frame.

A thud of his staff and the rushing berserker with his great sword aimed to skewer both of them at once froze mid-movement. Then he was falling to pieces as a statue might when disintegrating from old age, only infinitely quicker, years turning into seconds.

She looked at him at him, really looked. At his impassive impression, as he made himself a shield between her and the occasional arrow, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows whenever he cast. He was supposed to stay back, protect from afar, and an unfamiliar fury, fuelled by the chaos and war cries, made her stare him down.

"Fall back, Solas," she growled. "I told you to stay behind."

She pushed past him. An Avvar fell at her feet, an arrow lodged in his eye socket. She'd barely had the time to dodge his scimitar. Ellana released a relieved sigh.

Sera had regained higher ground. She was a deadly hawk, eye sharp, hand never wavering. She waved down at her before disappearing into the shadows.

When Ellana made to move deeper into the Keep, Solas caught her yet again. His fingers captured her elbow and he tugged, once, inciting her to remain still.

“What---“

“Don’t fight me,” he said with unexpected authority.

And with those words something _warm_ and _full_ and _oh so demanding_ invaded her blood. Ellana gasped, but the sensation was not frightening or unpleasant, merely new. She felt something indiscernible lap at her fingertips, cajoling her skin, and when she looked at Solas he appeared brighter, more real than anything surrounding her.

With a jolt, she understood he’d just pushed his mana into her.

It suddenly made sense why there had been so many mages throughout history who’d gone mad, drunk on their own power.

“There,” Solas said, pointing toward a weak wall.

Her eyes scaled its expanse until she realized what he was really hinting at. At the top, behind a makeshift barricade, huddled the remaining forces of Avvar archers. And they were quite formidable indeed, raining hell onto anyone who ventured too close.

Collapsing the wall would send them all crashing down and destabilize the massive beast of a warrior who stood vigil beneath. If anything, it would give them the opportunity to draw close enough to finish this.

“Draw,” said Solas and she did, oh she did, not once questioning him, intoxicated by the sheer magic coursing through her veins, so different from the painful Mark which had threatened to end her time and again.

The arrow flew with unprecedented grace. The Anchor flared, green light so intense it blinded her, but Ellana knew her aim had been true. There was but a second of peace.

She didn’t have the time to breathe.

The arrow struck stone and tongues of green flames lapped at the wall, racing up up up to devour the archers. Their screams filled the chilly night air, resonating within the confines of the fortress. And then nothing but echoes remained and the stench of burned flesh.

Ellana fell to her knees, panting. Even with her palm pressed against the ground, the Anchor remained a steady source of light---and energy. She felt too alive, too focused, and her eyes snapped left and right, never settling on a target. She first felt his voice, though words were but sounds, incoherent as of yet, and then Solas was assisting her up. Her took her hand in his and the Mark yielded to him. Her heartbeat slowed. Was this what he had done to keep her alive in the aftermath of the Conclave?

“Very good,” he praised, sounding very much the proper hahren.

Ellana nodded, weakly.

“That---“ she began and then cut herself off, shaking her head. She had no idea what _that_ had been.

“A joint effort,” Solas offered. “Most effective, wouldn’t you agree?”

“A little too effective,” came Bull’s voice. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, but only managed to smudge it further with blood.

Ellana shook her head again. This wasn’t the time to question anything. The Avvar leader had surrendered and awaited them at the other end of the Keep. Her leg dragged ever so slightly as she made her way to him.

The Avvar’s voice was like thunder, unyielding. There he stood, amid debris and corpses of his brethren, and yet looked like arrogance personified. Undefeated even as he bled, even as they advanced on him.

“Your god looks after you, Herald,” he said, inclining his head in a facsimile of a bow---whether to properly look at her or to look _down_ at her, Ellana could not say. “There lies the brat,” and venom crept into his voice at those words. “His father, chief of our holding, would duel me for the loss, if he cared enough."

He could so easily reach out and snap her neck, crush her windpipe between thumb and forefinger, but the only disgust in his eyes was reserved for one of his own.

And so, with a semblance of a smile and the conciliatory tone of voice Josephine had beaten into her, Ellana welcomed him into the Inquisition.

“Wait,” said Sera, her frown making the skin at her eyes crinkle. “Are you telling me we just fought through a shitton of undead and savages to recruit one guy?”

“Hush, Sera,” Solas muttered for the umpteenth time on this trip. “We came to free Inquisition forces.”

But…

Yes.

Yes, essentially they had.

Sera spat a mouthful of blood and groaned.

*

The return to Skyhold was uneventful. Ellana walked alongside Solas who seemed to be enjoying the dry weather. They did stop once or twice, and during one of those breaks Solas had coaxed her into a sitting position on top of a flat rock.

He knelt and his hands hovered over her ankle. "I would like to check for injuries," he said. "May I?"

She nodded down at him. Here he was, being so mild once again. His fingers worked to hitch her pant leg up. "You were dragging your leg. Where does it hurt?"

"The knee. It's nothing."

Soothing healing magic tended to sore joints and bruised bones. "Now," Solas said, "now it is nothing."

He remained on the ground, but turned his back to her, leaning against the rock. Her leg pressed flush against his shoulder.

"That trick," she began before trailing off. Her hands wrung in her lap. The memory of the Anchor flaring, her body quivering with raw power, wasn't something easily forgotten. There was an echo of it in her mind still. "What was it?"

"A joint effort," he repeated, punctuating his words with a dismissive chuckle. "Forgive me, da'len, I am being vague. The Anchor's magic is very peculiar, very potent. It makes you an impressive conduit." He did crane his neck then to look at her. "I wanted to test it out."

She was not convinced. "I suppose it's a good trick to know if I get cornered."

"Quite."

"Could I do it with Dorian?"

He tensed at those words. "In theory, yes. Why would you, however? I am a Rift Mage; my abilities are better suited for such tactics."

"Don't take it the wrong way, Solas," she said, voice low, eyes downcast, "but you are not an offensive force." And that was as much as she would say about his choice to go against her command. She didn't want to fight, didn't want a confrontation with a man who could be so deliberately obtuse that giving up seemed like a victory.

“I do wonder when the Qun will send their demands,” he said suddenly, pale eyes pining her in place. Solas rose and dusted himself off.

“Why do you say that?” she asked, careful. He did not indulge in idle chat, this was going somewhere and Ellana wasn’t sure she wanted to reach the destination.

“They will ask for the skin off your back and more, da’len.”

He leaned in to absentmindedly brush a fleck of dirt from her cheek with his thumb and, as quickly as it came, his hand returned to the top of his staff. He left her side to regain his place at the head of their party, always the stranger, always on his own.

She was left alone, eyes darting between a bickering Bull and an annoyed Sera before switching back to Solas. He was silent and nothing more.

With but a few words, he’d managed to shed doubt on the sincerity of a blossoming friendship.

*

After the gates of Skyhold had closed behind them, Sera skipped to the tavern, Solas advised rest with what she thought was a smile, and Bull bellowed something about needing to be bashed over the head with a stick.

What she hadn’t expected was for Blackwall to reach for her hand and graze it with a reverent kiss. His voice was all grace as he whispered, "My Lady," into her skin before retreating with a refined bow.

Dorian appeared as if on cue. “What was that?” he demanded to know. "But more precisely: when did it happen?"

Ellana cleared her throat. It did not help with coherence. At last, she settled on a, “I don’t know---I---I just don’t know.”

“Beards aren’t all that bad.” Dorian scratched his jaw, as though the gesture could summon one of his own. "I once had a dalliance with a fellow who kept the most alluring five o'clock shadow. Oh, the sinful things it did."

She could only blink in confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that Bull had more of an idea than anyone else that Solas was full of shit.
> 
> Also, I'm calling it: if DA4 happens, Solas will be the red herring villain. It's going to start out with the whole Dread Wolf vs the Inquisition/disbanded Inquisition and eventually the two sides will make a temporary alliance to face off against a greater threat (a Titan????) And then at the end you're gonna have Solas going all Deus Ex Machina on said threat's ass and voluntarily/involuntarily sacrificing himself after realizing that a flawed world is better than no world at all. Maybe he'll die, maybe Lavellan will die with him (because love right lol, and at this point I'm pretty sure there is no way we'll get a happyish ending for those two) or he'll get his head chopped off afterwards depending on the choices made in Inquisition (redeeming vs stopping.)
> 
> Anyway. Just my two cents lol


	3. Benefits of Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan has a cold following the events of the Fallow Mire. Solas brings her tea.

“Solas,” she said.

For her, he would be.

He breathed in seconds and exhaled hours. Time twisted around him like a capricious lover and it was his---his, his, his. He would not wither, but she would.

Fingertips that bled magic ---his magic, his _brand_ \--- and knew not how to wield it.

He would show her. He would lie and she’d drink it from his lips.

His Anchor. Stolen. Taken. But not by her---she could not be blamed. It was all happenstance.

A shemlen Herald who inadvertently ---innocently--- served a being of old whose legend had crumbled and fallen to corrupted hearsay. Innocence was malleable.

A mouth that spoke a name that had never been his, and yet it was, for she made it so and he wanted her pliant and submissive and responsive. Happy to obey in ignorance. Little, little sheep. Move, Ellana, he would whisper and she'd obey.

_Draw_

She drew.

Perhaps one day, she would kneel too. No. She shouldn’t. He'd never wanted that from anyone.

She wore the vallaslin of the Hearthkeeper and had the Dread Wolf coil yards of her strings around his fingers. Come the right time, he would yank and she’d come crashing down.

Time.

Yes.

Inconsequential.

A trifle.

And yet not enough.

He would not respond to Fen’Harel, if called, but he came when addressed as Solas. For he was Pride, was he not, and the Wolf was retribution. The world did not need that side of him just now, but it’s all he had left to give.

Pride rebuilt. Retribution shattered. He was neither.

He was Solas, the apostate and occasional friend, by the grace of a ---willing, ignorant, obedient slave--- Dalish girl whose lips were the color of winterberries.

So incomplete.

Not one, not the other. Not the grief-stricken madman who’d banished his kin behind a cold glass, and not the unassuming wanderer. He was more and he was less and nothing about this state was enough.

His head hurt so terribly.

The power, once restrained by his foci, had gone on a rampage. He felt drunk, intoxicated, bitter---so, so many matters to consider and emotions to smother and thoughts to repress.

Breathe.

Confusion.

Breathe.

“I brought you tea; you seem to have need for it.”

“Oh? I am honored. Even approaching the leaves is blasphemy for you, let alone actually brewing the stuff.”

“Do not jest, da’len. You won’t distract me.”

“But I want to.”

And here he could rip her throat if she were to tilt her head just so. Perhaps she'd enjoy it. But he did not want her blood or appreciation---just blind trust. He could do that. He could blind her with pretty words and she would blush ---he would mean it--- while he smiled.

She smiled.

He smiled back once more.

A twitch of the lips. A practiced dance. One he did not hate---but he should have.

“I have the sniffles, Solas, not the plague.”

“Truly?”

“Now you are the one jesting.”

He smiled.

She smiled.

A warm hand over his own as the mug was passed over. She whispered something, eyes gleaming, an insignificant secret he shouldn’t have cared to discover. But he did and he followed, for that’s what dogs did---they trailed after those foolish enough to beckon.

A murmur. “Are you avoiding me?”

An exhale. “I could never.”

“Good.”

“Why did you ally with the rebel mages, Inquisitor? I never asked.”

“Your counsel had merit.”

Spoken so softly, so timidly, blue eyes downcast and mouth barely moving. A moment of weakness he alone bore witness to. The Inquisitor, a proud figurehead, must appear unwavering, her decisions her own and final---to be influenced by an apostate, how unthinkable.

He did what she wanted him to ---what he desired--- and she melted. But a chaste kiss to the knuckles, a gesture familiar to friendship and intimacy alike. Not compromising. He promised nothing; she expected even less.

He didn’t require her reverence, but he would bask in it.

“There is unrest in Orlais. You will have to pick a side soon enough. Who do you favor?”

She told him all. Blackmail material Leliana had whispered into her ear and compromising truths Josephine had provided for arsenal.

She was so beautiful in her unwitting submission.

 ~~Lovely~~ useful.

So _real_ when she confessed to valuing him.

 ~~Delightful~~ useful.

Fen’Harel bared his teeth, but it was Solas who stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA a look into Solas' mind. Chapters with Lavellan will move the plot forward, and Solas' will serve for insight into his completely, at this point, fucked up head. This is where the unhinged part comes into play.
> 
> Teehee.


	4. Of Nugs and Carnations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude before a trip to Crestwood during which nugs are discussed and flowers gifted.

Dorian pressed his napkin to the corners of his mouth. First left, then right, deliberately stretching the ordeal out. "Well," he announced, "I hate nugs."

"No, you don't," Ellana answered absentmindedly. She tried and failed to reach the butter dish. "If you would, Solas?"

The butter was sent sliding her way, narrowly avoiding a carafe of juice; the lid didn't even topple. Solas busied himself with his flatbread.

"At any rate," she remarked, "what has inspired this confession, dear Altus Pavus?"

"It is my subtle way of saying that I will not be accompanying you to Crestwood."

"Oh, but nugs are such precious creatures," Leliana cooed at the other end of the table. She sighed dreamily, one hand over her heart. "One of my own was gifted to me by the Hero of Ferelden."

"---lover---" coughed Dorian.

Leliana smiled indulgently, unfazed. "Yes. My lover."

"Nugs make for decent stew," said Solas. "Lethallan, may I have the butter back?" His tongue darted out to steal the remains of jam from his lower lip.

Leliana let out a shocked gasp while Dorian grinned.

"Solas, I know we have our differences you and I, but in this instant ---well, first of all _disgusting_ , but that's beside the point--- I propose we bury the hatchet. The stars have aligned and we agree on the one proper use for those bunny-pigs," Dorian declared, attempting to reach across the table to pat Solas' hand but falling short, unable to breach the distance, and nearly knocking over a saucer of cream.

"Praised be the Heavens," Solas said with his practiced nonchalance. He hid his nose as well as his smile in his cup, eyes locking with Ellana's.

"His name was Schmooples," Leliana continued, steering the conversation back to a topic no one was really interested in. "I had him painted. I do believe I still have his picture in my locket alongside my love's."

"Of course, hahren."

The butter was sent back and the carafe lived to see another day as it was, once more, spared a collision.

"You have the _fucking_ Hero of Ferelden sharing a locket with a nug?" Dorian's hand began slashing through the air to punctuate his disbelief; he always got so physical when provoked. "This is grand."

Leliana hummed happily. "Indeed. They loved each other dearly."

"Ma serannas."

Leliana shook her head in mock distress. "Unfortunately, he has since passed away. But I do have Schmooples the Second and Boulette to keep me company now."

She indulged in a last bite of her pear and rose, the reports she'd been perusing tucked safely beneath her arm.

Pausing at the door leading to the war room and Josephine's office, Leliana chanced a glance over her shoulder. Her smile had once enchained the heart of a hero, but somehow Ellana doubted it had been this practiced back then.

"Solas," Leliana called softly. "Now that it's official that this situation of ours may go on for years, I've had letters pile up in the rookery. Everyone wants to send word to their families. Is there something you require? You have not come to see me."

Solas did not look up from his plate. "I do not." His knife dipped into butter and then jam; an odd combination, and Lavellan didn't know how his stomach could handle it. "I have no living family," he clarified. "You concern is appreciated, Spymaster. I am grateful."

Lavellan cleared her throat. "This is all very swell, but I need a mage."

"Excluding Master Pavus, you do have two others at your disposal," Solas pointed out, tone lazy and drawn out.

"Vivienne won't come. Plus lightning and rain don't mix well."

"Well," Solas said, reaching for his own napkin, "I suppose that leaves me, da'len."

She felt the same tension between them as when he twisted his words, his very voice at times, and called her da'len with the same intensity one might invoke when wielding a scimitar. By his lips, it had become a title and a reprimand, so easily interchangeable with lethallan, and yet infinitely more powerful.

They bowed to her, the Herald of a memory if not an irrationality, but Solas was wise. He did not acknowledge superstition; he strived for reality. The very same reality he forced upon her, not by strength but by conviction. Not only in times of doubt; it could never be that simple. When she crumbled, he lifted her up with reassurances; when she soared, he brought her back with reminders of duty.

Da'len. Child. Student. How easy it was to change the meaning and awaken doubt.

She wasn't the Herald of Andraste, would never be. Not to him.

Solas was not a man who believed in providence and he wouldn't allow her to stray either. He grounded her; it was as welcome as it was overwhelming.

"If you would have me," he added, long fingers weaving together and resting atop the tablecloth. "I would hate to impose."

It was time to put aside her grin, she understood what he would not voice. She'd chosen the wrong matter to joke about.

"You could never."

His smile was subtle but it was private and telling and _hers_. A secret of their own, not unlike the memory of Haven he'd conjured for her comfort. Echoing his words felt like surrendering, but not defeat. It was a taste of _him_ ; so much more _real_ than the recollection of a dream.

She felt a thrill.

And when the others left, she did not get up.

"My Lady Herald." A scout dropped a bouquet of carnations, hacked at the stem by an unpracticed hand, in her lap before giving a quick little nod. "These are for you."

The flowers had been wrapped with a silk bow. "Who sent them?" she asked, a slight feeling of dread already forming in her chest.

"Warden Blackwall."

Across the table, Solas' lips twitched up in a sly smirk. Her own fell.

"Thank you," she murmured.

With a fist to his chest and an incline of his head, the scout retreated. Ellana toyed with the soft petals, brilliant silk soothing her fingertips where the bowstring had left its cruel and eternal bite.

"Light red for admiration," Solas said, pragmatic, ever the scholar. "You are revered by an esteemed man."

She shook her head, but not at him. merely at the offering; as though the flowers could recount her lack of affection back to their master. "I never encouraged him."

"Are you quite certain?"

Comments made in passing, soft touches, embraces by the campfire after a particularly violent encounter. Gestures pertaining to friendship, but not inclusively. And yes, at times she overstepped in her quipping, but so did all. Bull teased; Cassandra became flustered, but her blushes were reciprocation enough; Sera spewed lewd remarks; Dorian flaunted himself. Only Blackwall was different.

He was sincere, his heart on his sleeve.

And she was not.

She looked at Solas who did nothing but cross his legs. He could be so unnervingly mild.

"I have to end this," she said and sighed.

"You shouldn't lead on an honest man," Solas agreed.

"...so there are no misunderstandings."

"Indeed," he said, rising.

Ellana laughed. The sound was stifled and ugly, partly muffled by her hand. "Well, at least I got one compliment today. Let's call it a late gift for closing the Breach."

Solas tilted his head at that. His expression did not shift. "Do not mistake restraint for disinterest, da'len."

There was a loose thread on his sweater and Ellana wasn't sure he'd let her pick it if she were to lean in.

It was hard to remember that he had kissed her back once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the Solas/Lavellan/Cullen triangle as much as the next person, but it's very popular. Out of all the companions, Blackwall has got to be the most honest one, emotionally speaking. Oh the irony. Like he pushes you away but he wants to be loved so much, it hurts. Considering the Inquisitor can be rather flirty before locking herself in a relationship with whoever, and it doesn't take Blackwall much, I figured it's not out of the realm of possibilities that he could have a crush on her.
> 
> Plus he's such a big teddy bear. His romance (more like nomance amirite huehuehue) with Josephine is so painfully sweet. He goes out every morning to get her flowers. Oh Blackwall, why didn't they elaborate your character just a bit more.


	5. Earn Your Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke has done more than enough.

It was hard to look at Hawke.

The man did not intimidate in the conventional sense; his actions did it for him. Otherwise, the Champion might have been considered a mild-mannered individual. But there, just there, sat a fresh streak of blood across his nose and his hands were folded neatly atop his staff.

And such a peculiar staff it was.

Varric advised not to ask, and Lavellan had never felt the urge to. Rather than just holding, Hawke _held on_ to it. The air was ripe with its distinct magical signature, something she had come to recognize after the Anchor had been etched into her palm.

He was both so much more than his legend and not enough.

"I am leaving for Crestwood on the morrow," Hawke said.

He did not turn around to look at her, but his shoulders tensed and he slumped further forward. This was where he stood constant vigil, on the ramparts overseeing their meager battlements, eye sharp and mind conflicted like the bird of his family name.

This wasn't the man she'd come to know through Varric's intricately spun words. There was something fractured about him.

"I will follow shortly," Lavellan promised.

Hawke said nothing. He spoke little, divulged even less. He was the figurehead the Inquisition deserved, reserved and quiet, even-tempered in the face of violence, not a Dalish with no previous care in the world but how to keep the aravels from getting stuck in the snow.

Snippets of a conversation that had made her feel coy and momentarily powerful slipped into her head uninvited.

 _Why you_ , Iron Bull had asked.

 _Someone should, I'm willing_ , had been her reply, half a quip and half a laugh, but neither sides truthful.

She didn't wish for a world where Hawke had been named Inquisitor out of pure altruism. This was selfishness through and through.

"Why didn't you want it?" she whispered. It did not have to be spoken in hushed whispers and low, secretive tones. Yet it felt like betrayal, a dagger taken to Cassandra's faith and Leliana's hard-earned trust.

Hawke scoffed, and for the first time actually looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot and his grin did little for comfort. He wasn't humoring her, but neither did he offer reassurance.

"Interesting people, we are, Inquisitor. I am a mage and you pick locks. I chose to support the Templar Order and when you required help you turned to the mages." Hawke swept a hand across the horizon, outlining all those in service to the Inquisition, in service to _her_. "We should clash, don't you think?"

Perhaps. But she didn't want to. "We share a friend."

"That does not make us alike."

"No," she agreed, "but it gives us a bridge."

Hawke pressed his back against the chipped baluster. He leaned down to bring them somewhat to eye-level, but towered over her still. "I will not be here long enough for it to matter."

The smudge of blood hid an old scar and the vibrant red was in part due to the war paint he wore at length. He wasn't old, but he was bitter and it came off him in waves. It had never occurred to her to ask just how much he'd lost at Kirkwall.

Something she wouldn't understand even if he were to open up.

But she might. One day. And the thought was terrifying.

She'd spoken of loss, of the lives sacrificed at Haven, so many souls swallowed by snow and fire. But it was not the same. It wasn't exile from a place that had become a second home, it wasn't the departure of family or abandonment of friends. She could not even come close to pretending his pain could somehow be matched by hers.

Hawke had been a catalyst; she, a mere victim of circumstance and, in so many cases, an observer. They did not stand on equal ground.

It was humbling.

"The elven apostate who aids the healers when the dead outnumber the living," Hawke said, "what is it that you call him?"

"Hahren. I call him hahren."

"Endearment?"

"No. A term of respect. It roughly translates as elder."

Hawke's eyes took on a glassy quality, and she knew at once that he was very far away. Somewhere reality couldn't drag him away from. His voice was jagged edges and rough tones when he spoke at last, the anger too potent, too exaggerated to be just that. A cracked mask that didn't allow for a deeper understanding, but at least an insight.

"I called my apostate 'love.' The Chantry went up in flames and he died with my blade between his ribs." He shifted into a comfortable position, one foot crossed before the other, aiming for nonchalance. But the lie was there---in the clenching of his jaw, the crinkles by his eyes, the fingers weaved so casually together.

"You are a mage. Could you have not supported him? Convinced him there was another way?"

Hawke rolled his eyes just as a curious sound escaped his throat. "My father was a blood mage, Inquisitor. A blood mage _and_ a good man. Impossible to imagine, I'm sure, but it was so. I understand more than anyone the dangers and necessities of blood magic. Call me an idealist ---oh, Varric would be in fits if he heard--- but nothing, no one, is inherently evil. Kirkwall, however, was overrun. It needed to be purged. Anders wanted chaos."

She winced. "Purged? You slaughtered the Circle."

"Not the Circle, no, just its corruption. I chose the strongest weapon in an attempt to prevent a bigger massacre."

"It didn't exactly work out."

Hawke gave her a half-smile, genuine but predatory. "You're right, of course. And I am done making hard decisions. Do you know what the difference between us is, Inquisitor?" He did not give her the time to reply, intensity spurring him on. "I am allowed to be selfish. I am not doing any of this for you, or the people, and certainly not the Inquisition. I am doing this for _myself_. I will correct a grave misstep and hope it'll somehow help the world, but beyond that I am free of obligations. The difference between us," he repeated, now merely mouthing the words, each one a soft, punctuated exhale, "is that I've earned my quiet."

Hawke drew back and whatever passion had previously seized him fled. He slumped once again, gaze downward. "You have a little green candle in the flesh of your palm that can close rifts. Your Inquisition wanted me because someone, somewhere praised my killing skills. In the end, my glory amounts to how many I've put in their right places. You are enough. You are so enough. I do not come close."

Lavellan cradled her marked hand. "I'm not the Herald of Andraste."

"Who said you needed to be?"

Hawke wiped the blood from his face, appearing genuinely surprised to discover it there. She could smell the stench of iron in the shared air between them.

"Oh," he said, once more composed and uninterested, "I forgot to mention there was a Venatori camp in the woods. I took the liberty of clearing it out for you."

His rough hand landed on her shoulder then, the gauntlet he wore sharp at the edges and scraping her skin through her tunic. But it was a weight she welcomed. It wasn't exactly an acknowledgment of her burden nor an offer of friendship, but it was enough. Lavellan brought her own hand up to cover his, warm skin clutching at cold metal.

"I will see you in Crestwood, Inquisitor," Hawke said, inclining his head.

And, most likely, that would be the last time, she thought.

But he had rightfully earned his peace and she was a fool to demand that hers be given to her now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't not include a Hawke cameo. So obviously my Hawke in this is the aggressive personality type who has romanced Anders, allied with the Templars, and then killed Anders after the Chantry blew up. An overall bitter fellow, someone I imagine would have spat in Cassandra's face if he'd been offered the role of the Inquisitor.


	6. I Don't Want Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole shouldn't feed bears. Ellana shouldn't want too much too soon.

Not that anyone would ever know, but Lavellan felt insubstantial which, all things considered, was a foolish notion to entertain.

It was Sera who could get a squirrel between the eyes from yards away; Varric who unleashed a storm of poisoned bolts; Cole who vanished from memory only to reappear to bury a dagger in one’s back and whisper _forget_ and _I am here_ and _sorry_ ; Vivienne and Dorian who manipulated the world around them and bent it to their wills, one making corpses dance in exchange for a smile and the other acknowledging no truth but her own; Cassandra whose faith was the true extension of her character, not her sword; and Bull who played with words better than Varric ever could, who never spun tales but could enchant with a lie that wasn’t a lie, an embellished half-truth but not that either.

And it was Solas who knew what no one else did. Intellect and knowledge and restraint, gathered through years of wandering. Solas who’d shared the secret of Skyhold and made her not only a Herald in shemlen eyes, but also Inquisitor, the one who had led them to a new home. Solas who never took credit and was content with solitude and suspicion while she enjoyed undeserved admiration.

She had a glowing palm. Oversimplified, but true. Not an acquired skill; she hadn’t bled or sweated to gain in. She was an unwilling opportunist, a very lucky one too, and Lavellan would not allow herself to forget even if the world insisted she did.

Crestwood was familiar, yet it was not. They’d followed in Hawke’s footsteps for as long as they could before it was time to admit defeat. They wouldn’t reach their destination today, but perhaps in the morning.

As she shuffled embers, it was easy to pretend she possessed no throne or title and would be retiring to her aravel later on rather than a tent painted with the sigil of the Inquisition. Ellana cherished those rare instants.

Varric sat at the campfire to crank Bianca, getting the crossbow ready in case uninvited guests showed up. Cole was muttering.

“She looks for him but he isn’t there. Where did he go? Maybe she can climb up that tree. There are bees. Bees mean something good. Something sweet. She likes it when it’s sweet.” The boy gasped. “Can I feed her sweets, Varric?”

“What are you talking about, kid?” His voice was weary but kind. His gaze did not shift from the flames, nor did his hands move. Varric, it seemed, was content to grow roots by the fire.

Cole paced, circling their bags and poking at them with his long, thin fingers. “The bear,” he exclaimed. “She’s lost her cub, but she likes honey. We don’t have honey. She might like something else.”

“Don’t feed the bear, Cole.”

When had this become a mundane thing to hear---to say? A testament, if nothing else, to the uprooting they’d all experienced after the sky turned green and a boy with a silly hat appeared to burn turnips and help the wounded.

Like a child who ran from one parent to the other, Cole sought out Solas. He quirked an eyebrow at his agitated approach; lounging by a rock as he was, he seemed unhurried to abandon comfort.

“Solas, can I feed the bear?”

The mage let out a soft chuckle. He brought his knees to his chest and rested his chin atop. It was odd seeing him so relaxed, his posture usually rigid and composed. As much as the position allowed, Solas shook his head.

“I’m sorry Cole, Master Tethras is right. You shouldn’t feed wild animals.”

Cole blinked and then he was looking at all of them, eyes lingering an instant too long on every face. “She isn’t wild,” he said in a tone tinged with such disbelief as though they’d just failed to grasp the essentials of life itself, “she is _hungry_.”

When Cole turned to her for approval, Lavellan felt the protective need to take his hand and pull his body against hers, anchoring him. He didn’t quite know how to return an embrace and it was overwhelmingly endearing. Still, she held him in the circle of her arms until he allowed himself to be lowered onto the grass. Trapped between Solas and herself ---by his stern stare and her insistent hold--- Cole wasn’t going anywhere soon. If her body didn’t stop him, Solas’ disapproval would.

“Anyway,” Varric rumbled, dumping his quiver at his feet so he could coat the bolts in poison, “fuck the bears.”

Cole gasped again. His wide-brimmed hat slid further down his forehead, but he didn’t rearrange it and succeeded in looking even more the vagabond. “All of them?”

“Yes, but especially that big one in the Emerald Graves.”

“Why?”

“He gave me the stink eye,” Varric stated matter-of-factly. He flashed a grin.

“Can bears do that, Solas?” Cole asked. He tugged at his sleeve, demanding attention.

Solas shrugged. The dim light from the fire cast a faint glow over his features. The edges softened and he looked younger, not as burdened. This is who he might have been once, she thought. A man without a million thoughts he would not share.

“I am certain,” he began, his voice a little too high to suggest he was being even remotely serious, “Master Tethras wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Or ---and that’s just a crazy suggestion--- you could call me by my name. I do have one, you know,” Varric remarked good-naturedly. “Sweet Maker, don’t get me started on that Child of the Stone shit.”

“Oh? That is who you are.”

“Yes and you have pointy ears. Yet you don’t hear me calling you ‘elf’ at every turn.” Varric scoffed, but it was humorous. Everything about him was, always. In her early days at Haven, he’d made her laugh when she had been a prisoner in all but name. But then again, he’d been one too. It was kind of him to offer friendship that could come with a price.

That did come with a price, she corrected herself, grim. He was chained to the Inquisition now even if he said he’d joined voluntarily. They all were.

Solas hummed. “Fair enough,” he conceded, indulgent. “You are right.”

He got up then, using his staff for support. She watched its battered end dig into the soft earth and stay there. Ellana looked up to see his hand outstretched in an offer.

“A stroll?” Solas asked.

Accepting would involve letting go of Cole, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that just yet. Her eyes wandered to Varric who dismissively waved off her concern.

“Just go,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”

“No bears,” she told Cole, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. Just to be sure, she leaned down and rearranged his hat so his eyes weren’t obstructed. “No bears, you hear me? Not a single one,” Ellana repeated. Behind her, Solas’ quiet laugh crashed against her hair.

Cole lost his interest in her within a fraction of a second. “Varric,” he cried. “A bee stung her on the nose. She thought there would be sweets, but there are only bees and she hurts.”

“What a tragedy,” the dwarf said. He raised a bolt to admire its shiny tip in the firelight.

Solas didn’t move, watching her with an expectant look. “Take your bow,” he said.

“Are we going hunting?”

His smile was crooked. “Not quite.”

He led her to a clearing where the foliage wasn’t so thick that darkness engulfed them. He looked different like this, she caught herself thinking. Maybe because they were alone or maybe, through some romantic and silly notion, moonlight became him. It didn’t matter. This Solas, as he set up wards around them, appeared just a man rather than a trove of knowledge, secrets piled upon heaps of silence.

“I want you to stand at my back. Do not look me. We need to be able to do this through feeling alone.”

“What exactly are we doing?” Ellana asked. She freed an arrow nevertheless.

“Practicing,” Solas said, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You are not tired and neither am I. We may as well work on perfecting this ‘good trick’ as you dubbed it.”

She didn’t budge even as he opened his arms to her; not an embrace, but an invitation, and still she didn’t step forward.

“Wouldn’t you rather walk the Fade?”

“I would rather be with you tonight; I am curious.” Words she wanted to hear but not like that, not in this context. A sentiment already corrupted by vagueness, it did little for reassurance when Solas inclined his head to murmur, “I did not mean to offend.”

“Of course,” she muttered softly, finally coming to stand behind him.

It began as a warm feeling and slowly turned into everything at once---frost, lightning, fire. He did not hold back as power rolled off him, thick waves of mana pushed into her rather than at their surroundings. The tips of her fingers sizzled and the arrow was enveloped in a static cage as it flew; frost blossomed on her lips and she needed no arsenal as a spike of ice fitted to her bow formed within her palm; sweat cascaded in beads down her forehead and the trunk she’d been using for range had tongues of flames devouring it.

Her blood felt curdled, too thick for her veins, a feeling so intimate she was left panting. It was more than accepting a man’s advances, more than parting her lips or allowing hungry eyes free reign. A very real, very tangible and yet not quite real part of Solas had wrapped around her. She did not see the workings of his staff, but each time he spun, every working of his fingers, flowed into her as well as him.

Again, she was intoxicated and, for a second so little it barely registered, not _simple_ \---not a little Dalish archer with crude technique and unsteady breath.

Ellana twirled.

The Anchor flared, no longer a soft candle. She wheezed in his face and he wheezed in hers. She etched an arrow and aimed it at the hollow of his throat. Solas obliged her curiosity. Elemental magic flowed down her arm and she released.

The arrow crashed against his defenses, the shock propelling it backward and straight at her, like a boomerang returning full circle. It shattered inches from her skin; ice splintered wood, fire ignited the fragments, lightning reduced them to dust.

“Fascinating,” Solas breathed.

He soothed the Anchor like she might have soothed Cole, with tender touches and unintelligible words. The burning receded and when she pulled her gloves back on, it did not shine through the thick canine leather.

Solas had retreated to a tree, sitting with his back propped against it. He used his finger to draw shapes in the earth. His lips spoke theories and magic manipulations, but she heard nothing. Blood rushed between her ears and there was nothing but its loud thrumming.

She didn’t hear him call her name, but his mouth moved, shaping it and her own responded in kind. “Solas,” she said.

“Ellana.” A second time---a second time she heard and which made her grin.

He hadn’t smiled for the sake of simply doing so in the longest time. No jest. No veiled insult aimed at Vivienne that he shared with her whenever the Enchanter wandered out of earshot.

He did now and it was beautiful.

Ellana dropped to her knees. He did not protest when she wrenched the staff out of his grasp, nor did he argue when, in silence, she swung one leg over his hips and settled in his lap. All she got was a soft exhale as he looked up, hands resting awkwardly at his sides.

She touched his shoulders.

Tilted her head.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing?”

He laughed at that, a derisive sound but not aimed at her. Somewhat self-deprecating in its detachment. Solas craned his neck, leaning further back against the trunk. “Why would I?”

“Because you like questions.” She moved her hands to his throat, feeling the steady pulse there.

“Not when I know the answer.”

Ellana tried to imagine him as a child in that mysterious village to the North. Certainly curious. Probably lonely. Little to interest a young man, he had said, quickly adding magic to the equation to cut off all possible inquiries. But loneliness did not befall one without reason. Was the village full of shem, unable to accept but one elven child among them? Had he retreated to the Fade not because it was his talent but to escape solitude?

What else could alienate a man so completely that he spoke of companionship as if it were a hardship?

One of his hands found her hip, not pushing, not pulling, just sitting there.

He would leave within a heartbeat, she knew. Once the sky was mended he would slip away. He had no ties. Ellana curled her fingers into the lapels of his coat.

“What did you leave behind, Solas?” she whispered, and in their proximity she could taste his warm breath. “Who?”

Maybe he had a child.

He had no family.

Maybe he’d lost a child. Or a wife. Perhaps even both. He kept no relic, no mementos but the ones safely tucked away in his mind. She was no fool not to notice that Solas lingered in the past more than he lived in the present.

“You are lovely,” was all he said, potent sadness lacing his words. He briefly looked away from her.

A compliment or an escape? Ellana couldn’t be certain. But she would take it; he gave so little, barely anything at all, and she would hold dear every sliver. She leaned in and he tensed. _Please_ , she thought, _please give in_. _I don’t want the truth, you don’t have to share it. Please, please give in, I am so tired of chasing you._

He seemed to snap between emotions before opting for neutrality.

Then he did touch her. Gripped, actually. Fingers digging into her ribs the moment their foreheads met. He’d meant to still her, but instead cost Ellana her balance and she had to slam her hands into the tree to keep herself from crashing fully into him.

“Please,” he said so very quietly, nearly entreating her. “Ir abelas. It has been a very long time, you must release me. _Please_.”

Still? Ellana chose not to dwell on the phrasing, fingers drifting to his face. “I don’t want to trap you, Solas,” she said. "I just want you."

“It would be far from a terrible fate.”

He sounded strangled---not her hahren and not the distant mage who spent his days at Skyhold with his nose in a book. Just Solas. All the masks fell away and yet she still saw nothing.

No. Not strangled, she understood as he averted his gaze. Surprised. He shifted and she climbed off him.

“Ir abelas,” Solas repeated.

“Ir abelas, hahren,” she echoed, eyes down.

In her peripheral, he winced.

Warmth spread through as his hand found the small of her back once again. Suddenly, the forest wasn’t so cold and she not so ashamed. He took both away with a simple gesture.

“I am in pain,” he confessed suddenly. “I am not myself at the moment.”

“Is it your head?”

That unnerving chuckle once again. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Ellana nodded. There wasn’t much she could do for him, a thought she hated. “I will retire.”

Cole came into her arms when she returned. She wrapped blankets around them and he nuzzled her throat, whispering about bears and honey and moles. Apparently, the latter weren’t particularly happy with their choice of encampment; they'd proved rude intruders.

“Cole,” she murmured, caressing his sharp face, “my Cole, please don’t worry so.”

“You are warm,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I make you warm.”

She kissed his temple. “Yes you do.”

“I don’t sleep,” he whispered, “but I will stay with you.”

In the morning, she found him standing guard over her. He didn’t leave until she insisted that all was well and she was, indeed, still very much warm.

They would catch up with Hawke and his Warden contact in a matter of hours. When she reached for her bow to strap it onto her back, Ellana found the gloves she wore to keep the string from shredding the skin of her fingers had been enchanted. She recognized the pattern as fire; her joints wouldn’t go rigid from cold anymore.

“The weather is fickle as of late,” Solas said as he mounted his horse next to her.

Maybe he smiled. Maybe he didn’t.

Ellana chose to enjoy the act for what it was---an acknowledgment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I firmly believe that Solas was definitely not the #1 pussy slayer of Arlathan. Lmao. Sure, dude is smooth as fuck when he talks, but he did live in a time where apparently everyone breathed poetry or whatever. And anyway aside from the fact that he isn't exactly the classically handsome type (I mean not like Dorian or Cullen who have boys and girls bat eyelashes at them) who would he have been in a relationship with? Not that he's without experience since, well, he's old as hell and probably has a few kinks of his own, but people who would have wanted him would've either been 1)attracted to him because in part of what he could give being Fen'Harel and shit 2)recently freed slaves and that was surely a big no-no in his book. Really doubt he would have slept with someone he, in a way, had control over.
> 
> And one more thing.
> 
> No. Just no. I refuse to believe that the guy who fucking giggle-snorts was Casanova incarnate.
> 
> XDDDD
> 
> So crucify me, but I think he'd be easy to fluster looool


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